Where I am is not important. Nor is the fact that I don’t have anything to say. What is important is that I can still type even though my typing speed has dropped from over 100 wpm into the single digits. So as I peck my way through my non-thoughts at least I have something I can do besides making dreaded phone calls while I’m snowed in. I hate making phone calls but I’m just in the right mood to wiz off another noodler to All Voices.
At the moment I’m stuck in a trench called The Golden Years and my chance of getting out is stuck at zero. The only advantage I currently have is that the view from here awards me a perspective that up to this time I’ve never had. I remember a SyFy writer once commenting that 90% of books written were a waste of trees. If he were still living, which he might be since I’ve heard this and similar quotes attributed to 90% of the SyFy writers, he’d have to change his view from trees to pixels. So I’ll help the ecology along by deleting the next paragraph.
About 50 years ago, a college kid told me the reason he was married was so he would have a wife to tell him what to do. Was this statement true or false? Looking backward through the telescope of time, I know now that it was true.
That’s because, at the moment, I don’t have a direction provided by anyone. One day sure isn’t like the next. I’m bouncing around like a white ball in a Chinese ping-pong tournament. My wife was excellent at compiling lists of ideas then hitting me over the head with them while I was driving down a road with more curves than a swimsuit competition.
I’ve never liked to take suggestions. I’ve never liked institutions. And I’ve never liked movies that won Academy Awards. I mean stuff like “Out of Africa,” “Dancing with Wolves,” or “Chariots of Fire.” But I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know.
Now I’m holed up watching The Late Late Show, and waiting for the end of the world. Or maybe not the end if, as the ever optimisticrecently said, when the Mayans got to the end of 2012, maybe they just got tired of making calendars.